


Never You Mind

by The Rose Mistress (Semilune)



Series: "The Bastard and the Hound," or Things Estinien is Terrified Krile Saw via Echo [4]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, Denial of Feelings, Eggnog, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Porn, Epic Bromance, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gratuitous Smut, Humor, Idiots in Love, Laughter During Sex, M/M, Make the Yuletide Gay, Male Slash, Messy, Mistletoe, Mutual Masturbation, Old Friends, On-Again/Off-Again Relationship, One Shot, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Porn with Feelings, Power Dynamics, Secret Relationship, Semi-Public Sex, Sex, Sexual Humor, Sloppy Makeouts, Smut, Starlight Celebration (Final Fantasy XIV), Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:35:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22018732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Semilune/pseuds/The%20Rose%20Mistress
Summary: ☾ ✧ ☽Aymeric loves eggnog, Haurchefant loves mistletoe.Estinien, as usual, hates everything.Well.  Almost everything.☾ ❅ ☽Formerly entitled "Festivity, Enticement." Big ol' credit, kudos, and profuse thanks to my dear friend Emily (emmerwrites) for the suggested change.
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel & Artoirel de Fortemps, Aymeric de Borel & Estinien Wyrmblood, Aymeric de Borel & Haurchefant Greystone, Aymeric de Borel & Lucia goe Junius, Aymeric de Borel/Estinien Wyrmblood
Series: "The Bastard and the Hound," or Things Estinien is Terrified Krile Saw via Echo [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1492565
Comments: 16
Kudos: 115





	Never You Mind

**Author's Note:**

> Formerly entitled "Festivity, Enticement." Big ol' credit, kudos, and profuse thanks to my dear friend Emily ([emmerwrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmerwrites/profile)) for the suggested change.
> 
> NSFW, 18+ ONLY! EXPLICIT!  
> Like. Extremely explicit. Not just a little bit.
> 
> Set several months to one year prior to the events of Heavensward.  
> Also, this actually became a really serious snapshot of their relationship, and I love it.

* * *

❅ ☾ ✧ ☽ ❅

The Manor Borel was warm, the company pleasant—and the eggnog, _passably delicious._

Perhaps, the host reckoned, he had partaken of a few too many cups. Nevertheless, Aymeric escorted a flurry of guests to the exit. “Mind your step,” he cautioned, feeling flushed and merry and altogether too fretful.

Ser Artoirel de Fortemps was among those taking their leave. Aymeric had to quell the urge to fuss over his misaligned cape. His fingers itched to re-button and rearrange it as the lord passed toward the threshold. 

“Be careful, my friend,” Aymeric blurted. “It would not do to have you take a tumble.” Pale and bleary blue eyes scanned the paving stones, wary. Already roads were glazed frosty, _treacherous—_

Edmont’s eldest son shrugged his mantle higher—blessedly _righter—_ and laughed, a cloud of white.

“Return to your party, Lord Commander,” he said. Despite his stern expression, Artoirel’s eyes were sparkling, clear and kind and violet. He smoothed back a long wisp of ink-black hair. “And pray keep an eye on our Haurchefant.” His shoulders stiffened. “He entertains a … _peculiar_ _fondness_ for holiday traditions.”

Aymeric chuckled, loud and hearty. “Well do I know it,” he agreed.

Fat flakes of snow began falling as Artoirel trekked out into the Pillars. Aymeric blinked a bit of frost from his lashes; glanced up to what was once a lush sprig of mistletoe, festooned above the molding of the entrance—of course by the Greystone in question. Now naught remained but a stringy, crumpled stem, dangling beneath a ragged ribbon—obliteration courtesy of Estinien, who was rather of a _grinchy disposition._

The lord of the manor turned back inside, tittering at the all-too-recent memory. Haurchefant reaching to pin the merry spray, his face alight with a grin. Estinien launching himself past the pinner’s shoulders to wrench it back down. _“Fury bless it, Haurchefant; if I find another clump of this godsforsaken plant—”_

“And what in the name of Halone has you looking so _godsdamned jolly?”_

The unjolly wrencher himself. 

Warmed inside-out by cinnamon spice, sprinkled all over with snowflakes, Aymeric’s affection for his fellows was almost unbearably enhanced. He felt his smile curl painfully wider and lifted his eyes, finding his dearest, grouchiest, oft-ridiculous friend. Estinien strolled up beside him. His simple Ishgardian plainclothes crinkled as he folded his arms, glancing tensely through the chamber—squinting out into the night to spy Artoirel’s retreating silhouette. “Did the elder Fortemps rummage up a spare morsel of wit?”

“ _Estinien_ ,” Aymeric snorted, shutting the door—clapping a warning hand on his bicep. “Behave.”

The other huffed and grumbled, lurching away. 

Together they began their prowl back toward the parlor, shoulder to shoulder, falling in stride. Estinien regarded him, a shade off from sour, dark eyes shadowed under long silver lashes. “If not Artoirel,” he muttered, keeping pace. “Why were you simpering and snickering like a _pillock?”_

Firelight and laughter trickled back into focus. Aymeric was proud to find he walked without swaying as they moved to rejoin the party—if the two remaining guests could be called a _full party at all._

“You,” the Lord Commander began, keeping his velvety voice carefully, _meticulously_ bland—which was no small feat, considering his tongue was half-feral with spirits. “And your distaste for— _most things festive.”_

Estinien scoffed affront and swaggered ahead. “ _Festivity_ never enticed me,” he growled, pausing on the threshold. He slouched at the archway to the parlor. The glow from the hearth spilled through the doorway to limn him, gilding his shapes and every sharp, arresting angle.

Suddenly, Aymeric was breathless; staggered in a way that had nothing to do with malt liquor at all.

While Estinien peered dully into the chamber—while Aymeric was hidden in the shadows of the hall—the lord of the manor studied his most treasured houseguest. Secretly, slyly, he let his eyes linger; traced every ilm of his outline. The feeling that split him was levin, white and blinding and _untamed._

Would that they could simply _go upstairs._

 _No._ There were agreements in place for a _reason_ —

The force of his gawking was hardly surreptitious. Estinien basked in the attention. He shifted his weight from haunch to magnificent haunch; threw a bored glance in his spectator's direction. “Well?” He raised one sharp, silver brow and tossed back his hair, making it glitter like snowfall.

Pulse pounding hard in his neck and— _other places_ , Aymeric emerged from the gloom beneath the unlit sconces. 

“Thirsty,” he said frankly. 

Estinien snickered as Aymeric edged past him through the doorway.

“Blessedly,” Estinien taunted, following behind. “The _nog bowl awaits.”_

Haurchefant and Lucia were draped by the mantel. Divested of his mail, Greystone looked a measure more dashing; practically clad in a quilted blue tunic and doublet, nonetheless resolutely in fashion. He eagerly brandished an eggnog as Junius watched on. Her fierce green eyes tracked the brimming demitasse with alarm. The Radiant was, indeed, _dazzling;_ sheathed in a long, pearlescent gown, trimmed in pale feathers. 

“Haurchefant,” she said stiffly. “Mind the carpet—”

Aymeric gave a silent laugh, delighted to be sidetracked from his infinitely inconvenient distraction. “I daresay the carpet has seen far worse,” he said vaguely, ambling to the eggnog to distract himself from _craving._

“Far worse?” Haurchefant laughed. He made a show of being astonished. “Lord Commander,” he warbled, tilting away from the hearth. “By all means—divulge the sordid, sundry details.”

Lucia blinked in guarded distress as one sly bastard approached the other. Aymeric merely hummed to himself, ladling blithely. “Mmm,” he purred, nearly overfilling his cup. “I would much rather not.”

Haurchefant was hooting and tutting, stealing the ladle for himself. “Oh no,” he rebuked, refilling his demitasse. “No teasing this evening, Ser Vicomte.” He swept one arm wide to gesture to the others. “Only your most esteemed comrades remain. The night is young, the nog is yet chilled, and you simply _must indulge us.”_

In the periphery, Estinien skulked along the wall. He slouched to steal the post by the mantel, now deserted. The Azure Dragoon and First Commander shared a private, long-suffering glance. 

“No indeed,” Aymeric insisted, downing half his fresh serving. “I will not be accused of loose lips.”

Haurchefant was gulping eggnog and chortling, throaty and contagious—also, apparently, deep in his cups. “In that case—” He shoved a hand into the pelt-trimmed pocket of his doublet and pulled out another sprig of mistletoe, dangling the spray of leafy berries overhead. “Care to press them together?”

Aymeric bit back a breathy laugh and coughed at the jest. “Heavens,” the blushing host demurred, lowering his lashes, wobbling a tad. He reddened rolanberry bright. “Alas, I must _respectfully object.”_

By the fire, Estinien scowled. His face was otherwise stony, but behind the grit was something unambiguously sullen. “Hells alive, Haurchefant,” he grumbled, smoke above gravel.

“What?” Greystone clutched his chest and feigned being stricken. “What _, my dear Wyrmblood—”_

“You _stuffed your damned pockets with that gobshite,_ ” Estinien groused, crossing his arms very tightly.

Fittingly, a grin of the shite-eating type spread across the Silver Fuller’s face. He bumbled back across the room, some blend of the prance of a stag and the pounce of a cat. There was a soft jingle-jangle as he strutted—bells hidden somewhere on his person, if Aymeric’s admittedly dimming recollection could be trusted.

Estinien cringed bodily away from his ring-ting-tingling assailant. 

Haurchefant wiggled the mistletoe belligerently between them. 

“Loose lips, Ser Estinien,” he heckled. “ _Loose lips_.” 

“I swear to swiving heaven,” Estinien snarled, dodging as Haurchefant made a gallant pass, “If you _keep saying ‘lips’—”_

“Lips,” chirped Greystone, joyful and triumphant. “ _Lips upon lips upon lips—”_

The chant became a hiss of _lips lips lips_ , and Aymeric dissolved into uncontrollable giggles. It was difficult to breathe. Surely he was on the brink of death. “At ease, men,” he stuttered, gliding over, choking through mouthfuls of dry, drunken mirth. “Enough with the blitz—”

Haurchefant paused, his grin an ilm away from Estinien’s pouting jowls. “Lord Commander,” he began, his tone explicitly ominous, couerlish smirk back in order. “How good of you to offer to _assist—”_

All at once, Haurchefant’s fists were upon them; one snagged in Aymeric’s cravat and lapels, the other at the laces that snaked up Estinien’s chest. “Fight lips with lips, I always say,” Haurchefant gloated—and with a surge of strength that should honestly _not_ have been shocking, he sent the two of them toppling, face first, _together_.

As he braced his palms on his dearest friend’s shoulders, Aymeric reckoned it was reflex that tilted his chin—an old, well-trained impulse. Their lips met in instinct, unplanned; surely not the _joint compulsion to kiss._

But then, both mouths were syncing in rhythm—sealed into a less-than-clandestine cadenza. Blunt nails raked the back of Aymeric’s neck, finding purchase in his curls, and he gasped, plainly famished. The tip of Estinien’s tongue flashed to taste the seam of his lips, and by the time the Lord Commander regained control of his body, his knee was poised to slip between his partner’s glorious thighs.

Aymeric blinked and spluttered and staggered back a step.

Haurchefant was howling. “I knew it,” he exulted. “By Halone—I _knew_ I bloody knew it—!”

Lucia looked cowed. She glanced from Aymeric to Estinien, and back again. “Had you not—” She cleared her throat. “Was Ser Haurchefant—not—yet—” She struggled for a moment. “Abreast of the situation?”

Estinien grunted in indignation, slumped back against the wall. “There is no _situation to speak of,”_ he protested, letting his fringe shroud his face. His cheeks were ruddy enough to rival an entire cellar of merlot.

“Wait.” Haurchefant was wiping tears of legitimate elation from his eyes. “Lucia. Were you withholding _sensitive romantic reconnaissance from me?”_

“My friends,” Aymeric interrupted, gesturing wildly with his now-drained demitasse. “Every one of us, I daresay, is party to some— _sensitive and incriminating reconnaissance.”_ He took a breath and squared his shoulders. “And by the same measure, well aware of the need to keep it _veiled._ ”

Haurchefant held up both hands in immediate surrender. One thumb was still curled around the tiny antagonizing branchlet. “Of course,” he said quickly. “By no means would I ever dare to run my—”

“Good,” Estinien barked, going rigid. “Keep it shut.”

Haurchefant opened his mouth.

“ _If you say ‘lips’ again, Silver Fuller—”_

“Enough,” rumbled Aymeric, the dark velour of his voice deepened into a shadow. He coughed. “There is eggnog that needs to be finished,” he said emphatically, “And I have neither the gut nor the wits for that tending.”

* * *

Later, much later, the manor was emptied. 

In the scullery, Aymeric helped his resident staff with a battalion of dishes—bowls and plates and dirtied demitasses—silver services, flatware and platters. Six hands to scour in congress. In addition, to the Vicomte de Borel’s considerable consolation, the effects of the eggnog were puttering thin.

Estinien never left. 

Though he was nimble and quintessentially silent, Aymeric could feel the eyes of his last lingering houseguest; knew he was propped there by the entrance of the kitchen, apprehensively _watching_.

Aymeric cleared his throat and wiped his palms on a dishcloth. 

“Come on, then,” he said, holding out the rag in summons. “I know you itch to make yourself useful.” 

The steward and the culinarian gave each other a side-eyed glance. 

With a snort but no further preamble, Estinien filed into place; settled at Aymeric’s flank in a wordless, organic reaction. The room filled with the clink and clatter of tableware being polished—eight sets of fingers to manage the chaos. Eventually, the staff crept away to their wing, and then only four hands were left. 

Only Aymeric and Estinien, beneath the dim lamplight.

The lord of the manor was buffing a butter knife when his guest snagged him gently by the wrist.

Estinien’s growl was gruff and blunt in the silence. “Tell me.”

Someone else might give question— _what do you mean?_

But Aymeric was schooled in their language; well-versed in the vernacular, the convoluted syntax of an epoch. Between them was a saga; multilayered confrontations—unspoken conversations, deep and painful altercations. Long agreed-upon laws and arrangements, sedate and staid and sacred—

_Tell me what possessed you to kiss me._

Aymeric took a soft breath. 

Eyes like comets lifted to lock with a set of blue midnight, and Estinien's fingers tightened on his wrist. “No,” Wyrmblood decided, bowing forward, allowing their brows to gently press. “Never mind. Tell me nothing.” 

Aymeric trembled.

For one, or three, or a handful of heartbeats, the two of them stood there, tilted together.

“There is an obvious answer,” Aymeric muttered regardless, eager to dispel the anxious energy in his veins. Despite their innumerable _exchanges_ , Estinien had a knack for awakening every vulnerability—every wisp of self-doubt—not to mention every remnant of timid, boyish _shame._

Callused fingers, gnarled and scarred, stroked a path up to Aymeric’s lapels. Up they swept to catch on the base of his ears; to press the lobe with the scintillant earring between one thumb and forefinger. 

The flush on Aymeric's face began to spread.

Estinien leaned against his wonderful, beautiful, _damnable companion_ , and their breath intermingled. “That troll Greystone,” he grumbled, right hand absently toying with the glittering azure gem. “And his _godsforsaken plants.”_

Aymeric was stilled by the touch of Estinien’s fingers. Someone else might suspect that he was frozen, _inert,_ but his partner knew far better. The man was coiled, carefully wound, ready to snap like a bowstring. “Haurchefant is a splendid friend,” the Vicomte goaded, satin swelling low in his timbre.

“ _Very splendid,”_ Estinien rumbled, fingertips spread—tracing the length of one flushed, tapered ear. That palm combed through curls of thick, silken sable, gripping gently at Aymeric’s nape.

The Lord Commander shivered. “Sterling,” he whispered. 

His hands rose to find the other's neck; to fist in tangles of salt white and silver. 

Estinien shook, very coarsely—so harsh that they stumbled. Aymeric tripped back into the counter. He blushed and braced and held his breath as the other heavily pinned him—spread his thighs in reflex to meet the firm roll of Estinien’s hips. Ache to ache they ground together, air coming faster, more ragged.

“You drive me mad, you bastard,” growled the urchin, nipping at his lips. 

Aymeric reveled in the implicit surrender. He watched Estinien’s self-control crack and start to shatter, pale eyes pleased and hooded. 

“My dear friend,” Aymeric purred, brushing their noses together. “The feeling is—”

He was summarily silenced. Estinien's mouth was hot, all tongue and teeth and total absence of pity. But Aymeric was wanting and _greedy_. Aymeric was more than willing to receive.

It was a desperate, practiced embrace. Both knew every weakness of the other, in battle, the boardroom or the bedroom. Estinien raked Aymeric's shapely lips between his teeth; broke from the kiss to bite a hard path down his neck.

A gasp of triumph escaped from Aymeric before his groan, dark and needy, echoed in the chamber. Estinien fumbled open the other's cravat; sent it rippling to the floor as he worked at the expensive black waistcoat. The neckline was decked with engraved golden buttons that Estinien labored to unfasten, to free another margin of that alabaster _throat._

“Perhaps—” Aymeric gasped and groaned again as a vivid bruise blossomed by his collarbone. “We should—”

Estinien hushed him with a grumble of complaint, making short work of the closure down Aymeric's chest. A sky blue bliaut was revealed. His calluses snagged on wisps of needlework, wrinkling sophisticated stitching. Hungry, Estinien delved between folds of fine fabric; plunged his hands down and _under_ , hunting for—

The sound that tore from Aymeric's lips was satisfying and _savage_. 

“Estinien,” he panted, his tormenter yoking him tight in his fist. “The—the _dishes—”_

Using his newfound leverage, Estinien grinned like a wolf—herded his quivering quarry toward a barren corner of the kitchen. He pinned his prey to another, emptier counter; shoved a thigh between trembling legs. Slowly and expertly, Estinien stroked the still-stiffening fullness yet trapped within his hand. “Better?”

Aymeric's eyes were glazing over, his long black lashes aflutter. “Better,” he grunted, hips jerking at the mercy of Estinien’s grip. Then he blinked. “Unless you make me ruin my—”

“Oh,” Estinien crooned, working relentlessly at his arousal. “Something will certainly be ruined.”

Slow and sure and steady, Estinien pumped Aymeric’s length in his fist. And, sure as every stroke of that hard, efficient hand, Aymeric—the Keeper, the _silver tongued speaker—_ melted into warm putty. 

All but witless, he moaned around the syllables of Estinien’s name.

Hot lips parted to breathe on his ear. “Hmm,” Estinien purred, hand dipping down to the base of him, rubbing and cupping and _tugging—_ “Was there something you wanted to tell me, _Lord Commander?”_

_By the Fury._

Aymeric was going to come. He was going to come all over his holiday trousers, without prelude or preface or prolegomenon, and Estinien was going to laugh at him _another year entire—_

The Lord Commander sucked a breath through his teeth and _resisted,_ flogging the impulse back into submission.His unfastened buttons glittered as he canted ahead, throwing his transgressor off-balance. 

In a graceless shuffle of _changements,_ Aymeric obliged the roles to be traded. “Myriad somethings,” he panted, looming to pin down the other. He trapped Estinien with his hips. “But ever do you bid me _never mind.”_

Aymeric’s open jerkin curtained to shroud him as Estinien, oddly exultant, kept him ensnared in his fist. “Never mind the never mind.” He was breathless, dark eyes scalding, maddening hand still administering attention. “Talk to me, Aymeric,” he begged him, thighs spreading wide. “Talk to me now— _forget it all later.”_

Something about his hypocrisy was thrilling, Aymeric had to admit. He slid into that wanton spread of legs and his cock throbbed and twitched. “What do you wish for me to tell you?” He dipped a hand between them to unfasten Estinien’s slacks. “How skilled you are at sapping me of _sense?”_

“A fair enough beginning,” Estinien grunted, face gone zinfandel red. 

Aymeric bent to close lips at his neck, tasting musk and sweat, alluring and bitter. “And what had you in mind for our ending?” 

Estinien groaned as, this time, _he_ was taken in an unforgiving fist. “ _Hells—”_

Aymeric gave a breathy laugh; swirled a thumb along the glans. He relished the way Estinien went speechless and trembled. Mouths and tongues pressed in a messy caress, and they rocked in lilt and tandem—thigh to thigh, fist by fist. Soon both were winded, nearing a limit. Aymeric grinned. 

Now both sets of slacks would be soiled by the finish, and that was somehow more fitting. 

_Reprisal_ , he decided, gently vicious. Or what would have been reprisal, had Estinien any capacity for humiliation. “Not yet,” the unembarrassed one insisted. In a flurry of pale hair—some got caught in Aymeric’s mouth—he ducked away. Aymeric watched in confusion as the other shimmied out of his trousers; kicked them to the floor. Estinien craned his neck in chase of something. “Is the oil still kept in the larder?”

Tragically for everyone, Aymeric’s capacity for humiliation and embarrassment was profound. He noticeably faltered. “Estinien—” His pulse thudded in his ears, uneven. “It has been—quite some time since—”

“Shut it,” Estinien grunted, loping pants-less for the pantry. Somewhere along the way, he shed the rest of his apparel—and at the sight of him suddenly _naked,_ Aymeric’s heart was pounding afresh. He watched in some bizarre blend of dread and mounting excitement as Estinien rummaged through the cupboard. 

“Not the posh one,” Estinien rumbled to himself. He retrieved a cheaper bottle, uncorked it, and carried it over, decanting a thimbleful out into his hand. “Take off the rest of that,” he said brusquely, jerking his chin at the waistcoat and bliaut. “Unless you _want_ it to be ruined.”

Aymeric stripped so fast he almost cracked his head on the counter.

Stifling a laugh, Estinien tested the oil between his fingers. “You wager this is olive?” 

Beside him, Aymeric folded every fulm of his attire, carefully setting it aside. He hunted a wide dishrag out of a cabinet and reached to take the bottle. “You could always taste it,” he said dryly, cocking a hip on the counter, pouring out a nip for himself. 

Estinien’s eyes flashed up, dark and smoldering. 

He snatched Aymeric’s palm and smeared the oil across it, then shoved one long finger in his mouth.

Estinien sucked on Aymeric’s finger, and Aymeric was going to combust. He was going to burst into flames—catch on fire in this kitchen and perish, and Estinien would burn along with him, and Lucia and Haurchefant would be belly-laughing through the sniffles at the funeral procession because _they would know exactly what happened._

As he tortured Aymeric with the drag of his tongue, Estinien watched him. He pulled the forefinger free with a wet, inglorious sound. “Probably olive,” his tormenter casually determined. “You always did have the _more discerning taste._ Alas,” he murmured, pausing and lidding his eyes for effect. “My mouth can never be trusted.”

Aymeric swallowed hard, lightheaded. All the blood in his body was rushing, swiftly, _down._ He gripped his own aching stiffness in a fist and winced. “Estinien,” he panted. “What was it that you wanted?”

There was something foxlike, again, in the silver beast’s stare. He took the rag and spread it on the counter. 

“You tell me, _my Lord Commander.”_

And like a stone plunging into the still of calm water—like a bolt of lightning cleaving a sapling in half—something in the back of Aymeric’s eyes stretched, and bent, and _snapped._

It was hard to keep track of their limbs as they grappled; as Aymeric unrestrained himself and _tackled_.

A snarl of conquest curled in Estinien’s throat as he hopped up to sit on the towel, hooking his Commander with his legs. Both moaned at the contact, hips lurching to align them—arousal to swollen arousal. Aymeric ground them hungrily crux to crux; looked down with wild eyes to admire the sight. 

Their girths were too formidable to be held together in one hand, but Estinien gave it his very best effort. Aymeric joined in the endeavor. Fingers overlapped and warm oil commingled with the slickness of excitement.

Both struggled, breathless at the sensation—the duet of firm flesh in syncopation. 

“Estinien,” Aymeric grunted, eyes closed tight in elation. He raked his hands around powerful thighs. “I—”

“Say it,” Estinien hissed.

Aymeric tossed back his head at the friction and throttled his shout. “I want to be _inside you.”_

Estinien reached for the bottle; liberally dispensed. The cooking oil glistened on his stomach. He lathered it over his fingers; swept them down between his legs. Not to be outdone, Aymeric greased and delved to assist. Both eager hands offered ample preparation, but—Aymeric took a grim breath.

“Be sure to tell me if—”

“I know,” Estinien dismissed.

Aymeric swallowed the rest of the warning; lubed himself up perhaps a bit too sloppy, excessive. Oil dripped to the floor. He could hear the pit-patter, and—and Estinien was _laughing_ , of course he was laughing _—_

“Aymeric,” he snorted, repositioning himself on the rag. “Try to relax.”

“That—” Aymeric’s brow knitted. He glared down into Estinien’s taunting dark eyes and pouted. “Should I not be urging _you_ to— _ah!”_

Estinien was unblinking, holding his stare—holding his stare _and his cockhead,_ and nudging the glans of him _there—there where the both of them wanted._ And then it was pressing, pushed past the rim—pushed in one ilm and _reality shifted_ , and Aymeric’s soul was detached from his body, his natural life just about to expire—

The groan that rumbled through Estinien was unreasonably erotic. Aymeric curbed himself against the urge to rut, moving deliberately and _gently,_ but the other was _squirming_ as though to take him in _harder,_ and—

“Estinien,” he wheezed, restraining himself. “What in the name of Halone—”

_“Did I tell you to stop—”_

“Obviously not, but—”

Estinien’s legs trembled as he flung back his head. “Keep _going,_ then,” he growled, his own stiffness flexing on his stomach. Aymeric could feel his eyes glaze over at the command. He gripped his lover by the thighs—arced carefully over as he pressed. Ilm by ilm he hilted, until he was almost completely—

“Fury,” Estinien huffed, rocked by heavy breaths. “Heavens and _hells—”_

Aymeric coughed, flinching at the clutch of Estinien around him. “Did I not tell you _—”_

“I misremembered what it _felt like—”_

Another ripple of muscles in succession. Aymeric’s hips jerked and the two of them gasped, wracked with trembles. The Lord Commander shoved his face against the base of his officer’s throat and kissed him. “I—” He trembled, moving tenderly within. “I could never misremember,” he confessed, a broken prayer.

Beneath him, Estinien shivered. 

The kitchen echoed with their panting; slick staccato sliding into tempo.

Lips were crushed to Aymeric’s ear, where they whispered. “Know that I never forget.”

Theirs was a story of bittersweet endings, but twined mouth to mouth—mounted skin to skin—in the heat of that blending, truth was naked and unbending. 

_I love you._

Beads of sweat pooled with the pressure and tension. Aymeric’s toes were starting to curl, the limit hurrying to rend him. He moved with stubborn persistence, seeking the spot he most wanted to tempt. “Estinien,” he panted, low and dark, dragging his cock there within—dragging teeth on Estinien’s chin. He wedged an urgent hand down to grip his partner’s aching stiffness, applying every hard-earned secret. Aymeric stroked and squeezed and teased, and issued a decree: “Come for me—”

Every sinew in Estinien tensed. A stream of curses left his lips with the force of a tempest.

The words wreathed around a mantra of Aymeric’s monikers— _Bastard—Borel—Lord Commander—_ and he arched his back and writhed. “Gods _damn it,”_ he croaked, shuddering, tossing his head to the side.

Rocked between hand and his hips, Aymeric wrung him _spent._

Estinien flushed from chest to ear tips, wet silver hair mussed and tangled. Crushed to pieces by the commandment, melted by release, Estinien was panting and magnificent. He was magnificent, and Aymeric was pleased.

Aymeric basked proudly in his animal achievement; rejoiced in the softening pulse in his hand.

“Good,” he purred, moving breathless, so thrilled to _give pleasure—_

And then, sharp and sudden, he was hurtling past the threshold.

He braced himself there on the counter to be gentle, his body swept away along the torrent. There was ringing in his ears and stardust in his eyes and he surged and spasmed, again and _again_. 

A strangled groan escaped him in his blindness. Aymeric staggered and sagged, nose and lips pressed at Estinien’s skin— _he knows, he well knows that I love him_ _—_ and he gulped down the urge to shout it.

Slowly, desperation ebbed and faded, and Estinien—

Estinien curled to embrace him. 

Hard, tender breaths. Slowing heartbeats. For a moment of tingling closeness, all too rare, the two of them were vulnerable, together.

Then, the rush of frenzy was braking—the heat of it, slaking. The wake of the afterglow lapped like calm waters. Lips picked a path along the sweaty curls that clung to Aymeric’s head, and Estinien—

Estinien was unmistakably _sniffing._

“We smell like—” He wheezed. “Bread.”

Aymeric snorted; leaned back to stare at him in bewilderment. “As in _baguettes?”_

“Must be the oil,” Estinien grunted. He cringed and eased himself away.

The sounds that followed were sordid, unsealing flesh and humid wetness. Aymeric took a careful step backward as Estinien lowered his thighs, which were shaking uncontrollably.

Swift and sudden came the Commander’s urge to fret. “Your legs—”

“Will be fine,” Estinien grunted. He tucked up the dishrag underneath him like a loincloth; met his partner’s waiting eyes with no small measure of irony. Estinien quirked one sharp, silver brow. “Never you mind.”

Aymeric took a breath. 

_And again we pretend to forget._

He combed a hand through his dampened black hair; tamped down his feelings and surveyed the damage. The counter and floor would need immediate cleaning. He flexed his toes. “We will need to wash this."

Estinien laughed, hoarse and husky; slipped down from the counter, towel held to his rear end. “Let me _wash myself first, you damned demented dingbat.”_

A reasonable request.

The two of them crept to the exit; tiptoed out into the hallway, which was cold and very dim. Aymeric followed at Estinien’s heels as he rushed on wobbly legs for the downstairs bathroom. Both crammed in together. Soap and water and several goosed arsecheeks later, they scuttled back into the scullery to dress.

Fully attired but still a bit sweaty, Aymeric scrubbed oil from the floor.

He cleared his throat—tried to keep the question as informal as possible. “Will you spend the night?”

Estinien raked back his long hair to stare down at him, rag paused on the counter. “Bawdy,” he rumbled.

“Merely slumber and breakfast,” offered the other, very blandly. He kept his glacial eyes on the tiles, examining a furrow of grout. “Austere and abstentious and entirely devoid of _fond sentiment.”_

Estinien scoffed, absorbed in his task. “Unlikely.”

He knew him too well. 

Aymeric took another breath, scrubbing more sternly. “Stay. Upon my word, I will refrain from affection.”

“Ser Aymeric de Borel, refraining from affection.” A snort-chuckle from above. “Mayhap when _Coerthas warms over again.”_

“Nay,” insisted the Vicomte. “I am in earnest—my feelings will remain— _antiseptic_.”

“Tell that to this end of the kitchen,” drawled Estinien wryly. 

Aymeric laughed loudly and presumed he had his answer.

_Never you mind._

In the foyer after the washing, halfway to goodbye, Aymeric’s foot nudged something fallen on the carpet. 

He bent to retrieve it but Estinien was quicker; straightened up holding a—jolly sprig of leaves and white berries, tied together with a red ribbon. Aymeric chuckled, soft and breathy. “Let me dispose of it,” he offered, hand outstretched.

But Estinien twirled the branchlet between his fingers, regarding it in thorough contemplation. His hair was dried in silver kinks and snarls, his chronic dishevelment oddly, compellingly, charming. “Hmm.”

A measure of silence. 

Aymeric’s pulse skipped. “Yes?”

Eyes of blazing pitch, bluest midnight, flicked over to behold him.

“Exactly—” Estinien paused. Took a breath. “With what sort of breakfast were you hoping to _entice me?”_

The Lord Commander’s heart was a jubilant drumbeat, boxing his reddening ears. He tried to swallow down his delight; kept a cool bearing in place. “None too festive, my dear friend.”

Estinien held his stare and hummed—rolled the mistletoe again. “Aymeric,” he said very softly, smoke and cinnamon spice. “With you, something festive might damned well be nice.”

❅ ☾ ✧ ☽ ❅

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> The holiday spirit possessed me and allowed me to compose this in approximately two days! I started conceptualizing the idea on Friday, December 27th, and slammed it down on Ao3 today, the 29th.


End file.
